


it's yours, it's mine

by shardmind



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain Swan January Joy 2020 (Once Upon a Time), Domestic Fluff, F/M, killian drinks respect women juice and you cannot convince me otherwise, takes place after 6x22 but before 7x02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 03:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shardmind/pseuds/shardmind
Summary: Sometimes, Emma loves Killian Jones— well, all of the time, really. ‘Til death do us part and all that. Sometimes, however, in situations like these, as Whale pulls the thick glass shard from her palm, she really wishes he’d shut up.He won’t. He never does.(CS January Joy 2020 ♠)
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 28
Kudos: 124





	it's yours, it's mine

**Author's Note:**

> BIG SHOUT OUT to @recoveringthesatellites who's tenacity, support and mad beta skills encouraged me to polish this off, even when I was mostly dead (but still slightly alive)! You're a star! ♥ 
> 
> Also, big thanks to all the lovelies in the CSJJ discord who filled the chat with laughs and love and encouragement! ♥

“Breathe through it, love. It’s just a routine extraction.”

Sometimes, Emma loves Killian Jones— well, all of the time, really. ‘Til death do us part and all that. Sometimes, however, in situations like these, as Whale pulls the thick glass shard from her palm, she really wishes he’d shut up.

He won’t. He never does.

Modern medicine fascinates him, in practicality and in fiction. It’s her fault really, showing him early on the wonders of Netflix. Storybrooke really isn’t as action-packed as it once was, leaving her plenty of time to hook (ha!) her husband on hospital dramas. They’re currently six seasons into a Scrubs marathon but his favourite is, by far, House. _That Cameron lass looks an awful lot like you, love_ He says, every time she questions him on it. It’s gonna blow his tiny mind when he finds the sexy doctor outfit she has tucked away in her underwear drawer, complete with stethoscope and clipboard.

A slick squelch and nauseating drag as Whale slides the glass from where it embedded itself in her hand snaps her from her thoughts, drawing out a hiss she can’t bite back. It’ll leave a nasty scar, that much she knows.

“Fuck!”

“You did a real number on yourself, Emma, but the worst part is over.” Pressing an antiseptic gauze pad over the wound, Whale offers her a wink. Despite the land being free of curses and peace all around blah blah blah, he still manages to catch her last nerve with his cocky demeanour, pressing down on the now stained gauze with some force. It stings like a bitch.

“I’m pretty sure the worst is yet to come, Doctor.” Killian chimes in, leaning over to see the tools laid out on the sterile tray resting on Emma’s bedside table. She had protested the bed, claiming she could take the stitches standing or sitting or anything but laying down. The nurse looked as if she was ready to wrestle her down if she refused. The bed had been the lesser of two evils. “What type of stitch will you be using?”

“Killian—” She starts but isn’t able to argue with the fascination in his eyes. He’d seen hospitals before, of course, been on the receiving end of their services on more than one occasion, but he never held the same kind of enthusiasm then as he does now, watching as Whale inspects the gash on her hand.

“Actually, Captain Jones, your wife is lucky. I think it’s just shallow enough that a few steristrips should do the trick.”

“Thank God.” Emma mutters under her breath, not missing how Killian gives her non-injured hand a reassuring squeeze.

Whale applies the strips with practised ease, allowing each one to gently seal the edges of the wound closed. There’s a tension where the adhesive tugs at her skin on either side of the gash, uncomfortable but not unbearable. She’s dealt with worse.

It takes eight strips in total, each one taking less than a minute to apply. Whale talks through it, trying to distract from each uncomfortable twinge but it’s all background noise. Emma lets herself zone out, focusing only on the slow drag of Killian’s thumb across her knuckles.

Emma rolls her eyes at Whale and his insistence that she take it easy. “Take a few days off, Sheriff. Doctors orders.”

“Oh please,” She scoffs, flexing her palm and feeling the discomfort as she does so. Not that Whale needs to see that. Killian smirks, pressing a kiss to her cheek as the doctor calls him over. “I could use magic to heal this in a heartbeat if I wanted to.”

“Is that so?” He hands over a bottle of painkillers to Killian, nothing fancy, and a few extra dressings for the wound. Killian tucks them in his pocket, taking a look at the chart at the end of her bed. He’d look good in a lab coat, hair pushed back, glasses, using his authoritative voice to order two week’s bed rest… wow, now she’s the one with a fantasy.

“Then why don’t you?” Whale teases, one eyebrow raised. His hair is lighter than it had been when they’d first met. Someone had clearly discovered peroxide in the land without magic. It’s stupid. He’s stupid. The childish retort sticks in her throat.

“Someone’s got to check everything’s up to standard here, mate.” With a wink, Killian pats the doctor on the shoulder, the brace of his hook catching his shoulder blade with a dull thud. Whale winces away from it. He drops the subject of Emma’s magic and returns, grumbling, to disposing of the bloodstained gauze into the fluorescent biohazard waste bin.

Their whole trip to Storybrooke General had taken less than half an hour but, as Killian drives them home—a recent development, having only just gained his permit after years of pestering from David—exhaustion rolls over her in waves, encouraging her eyelids to flutter shut. She reaches her hand for his thigh, resting it there just to feel warmth beneath her palms. The heat in the damn car still doesn’t work, despite David’s attempts to fix it throughout fall. By October, he’d given up. She really needs to find a better mechanic.

“You okay, love?”

“Yeah, just cold.”

“We’ll be home soon.” He reassures, taking his good hand from the wheel to stroke hers atop his thigh, softly caressing her wedding band. “I’ll sweep up all the glass and you can curl up on the couch. We can watch Pride and Prejudice again if you’d like?”

In their time living together, without the pressure of being the saviour or magical prophecies or bad guys, he’d come to know her so well. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected him to adapt as easily as he did—she’d half expected him to miss the adventure and danger—but Killian had taken to domesticity like a duck to water, revelling in life’s simple things like electric blankets, text messaging and two for one offers on Ben and Jerry’s. She couldn’t be more thankful for her husband. She tried to show him whenever she could. With words, kisses and more.

“1995 or 2005?”

“Do you take me for a fool?” The smirk across his lips is the one she fell in love with. She would recognise it anywhere. “2005, of course.”

“Right answer.” She hums, content, letting her eyes slip shut for the rest of the ride.

  


* * *

  


The painful throbbing spikes in her palm, radiating through her wrist and falling short just shy of her elbow. It’s almost agony and the grunt it drags from her has Killian peering over her in seconds, a concerned furrow in his brow. Falling asleep in his lap, arguably, had seemed like a good idea at the time, with her brief nap on the ride home doing nothing to sate her tired yes. Now? Not so much. There’s a crick in her neck and a throb in her spine and her toes are cold from where the blanket hadn’t quite covered them.

“Painkillers wearing off, love?” He strokes the stray hairs from her forehead with the point of his hook, careful not to drag the tip against her skin. Anyone else would’ve questioned using his hook in such a manner, but she’d become accustomed to the addition in all aspects of their life—even the intimate ones—and, above all else, she trusts him. Killian’s been wielding the appendage for longer than she’s been alive, after all. It’s a part of him as much as she is.

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t take any, did you.”

She shrugs.

He sighs, exasperated. “Emma—”

“I know, I know.” She leans up to kiss the frown from his lips, ignoring the protest from her aching back. This must be what ageing feels like. “I figured I’ll survive without them.”

“You’ll survive, aye, but you’ll be a misery arse the entire time.” He’s right, of course, Emma can already feel the irritability creeping in with each pulse of her hand. Why does he always have to be right? He smirks, meeting her with another soft kiss. “You’re pouting, love.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And you’re stuck with me.” He reaches over to the coffee table, bringing back the abandoned bottle of painkillers and a half-full glass of water precariously balanced in one hand. “‘In sickness and in health.”

Emma’s heart stutters, fluttering in her chest as Killian offers them to her.

Years ago, they’d promised no walls, no secrets. Then they’d promised forever.

Her walls are all but rubble now, he’d torn down each one with ease; each adventure, each endeavour, each loss and return, solidifying his place in her heart.

Their wedding day, despite the circumstances surrounding it, still stands true as one of—if not the—best day of her life. They’re working slowly on forever.

Well, maybe not as slowly as Emma had originally thought.

She’d done pretty well on the whole ‘No Secrets’ thing, for the most part, only vetoing the rule come birthdays and Christmas and the occasional anniversary, just to keep things exciting. Over their years together, the need for secrets dissipated the closer they got.

Until last week, sat on the floor of her mother’s bathroom with the fate of their future clutched in her fist.

The five-minute wait had been agonising. Mary Margaret paced, talking a mile a minute about nothing in particular as Emma clutched her knees tight to her chest, memories of the first time she’d done this flooding back. Back then she’d been trapped, alone and afraid.

Two thin blue lines.

She took three more tests, just to be sure.

Identical results.

The tears that came this time around weren’t ones of fear or trepidation, but happiness. A second chance.

Emma hadn’t been ready for a child the first time—pregnant too young in a situation too fucked up—but now, surrounded by love and trust and support, maybe she is.

Dark hair, blue eyes—or maybe green eyes, her cheeks, his smile—

“Swan? Anyone in there?” As quickly as it formed, the vision is gone, replaced with her husband’s soft smile. God, she hopes she has his smile. She? He? They? Does it matter? Emma shakes the thought away, pushing herself up on her good hand and tucking her legs beneath her. Her back doesn’t scream in protest which is a good sign.

“I was just thinking.” She shrugs, letting herself lean against his arm.

He rests his head atop hers, pressing a quick kiss to her crown. “That’s dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry, go on.” He chuckles, warm and deep, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and letting his fingers caress the exposed skin between the strap of her vest and the edge of the blanket. At some point, he’d put the pill bottle and water back on the table, most likely when she was thinking of—

“There’s a reason why I haven’t used magic to heal my hand and why I haven't taken anything for the pain.”

He nods, the movement of it ruffling her hair slightly. “I figured as much.”

"It's just that it's a lot to take in and I wanted to think of some big extravagant way to tell you because I know you'd have done the same for me, so I planned out a nice evening; home-cooked italian food, a couple pints of ice cream and your favourite rum, which is why I was elbow deep in the glass cupboard trying to find the tumbler Henry had engraved for you before he left, you know, the 'world's best dad' one. I found it but I slipped and— yeah, you know the rest."

Silence rests between them for three heartbeats as she allows it to sink in, half confession, half explosion. She doesn't want to be the one to break it.

"Can I ask," He starts, voice husky and quiet. Emma turns to face him, taking in his features as he calculates what it is she's saying. "Why you'd need that particular glass, love?"

She smiles, letting the warmth of it radiate through her, pain in her palm almost forgotten. "Isn't it obvious?"

His eyes, hopeful and oh so blue, sparkle in the low light. Every time she looks, she finds so much love there, enough to fill them both so completely and she hopes so much that he sees the same in hers. Starting a family is something they’d talked of in passing; hushed conversations, wrapped in the warmth of each other, neither one wanting to surface back to reality as they discuss the fantasies of the future, both frivolous and not. It’s not something they’d actively pursued, but sometimes these things happen. 

Accidents happen.

Maybe even happy ones. 

"I'm pregnant."

It takes a few seconds for him to respond, the only indication that he hasn’t completely frozen is in the widening of his eyes and the lingering patterns his fingers draw on her shoulder — they slow, pressure barely there at all, but never stop.

“Are you certain? I thought— your protective pill?”

“I know, I was surprised too. I’m sure though.” 

Emma hadn’t even noticed her hand sinking down to her stomach, resting over the place she would soon swell, until Killian placed his own hand atop hers. There are tears in his eyes, darkening his lashes as he tries to blink them away, and they’re soon mirrored in her own. _God_ , she loves him. This man, who’d come into her life on the back of a hurricane, broken and hell-bent on revenge, had become her part of her world and more, tearing down his own walls along with hers until they were nothing more than two bare souls, open and honest and joined by a love they’d both thought impossible. Who would’ve seen it coming? 

(Mary Margaret says she knew right from the beanstalk. Emma always refutes it but, then again, her mother does have some kind of sixth sense when it comes to true love.)

“We’re having a baby?” His voice catches on the word, so impossibly full of love that her heart almost bursts. He’s not looking at her, only focused on where their hands are joined. She can see the thoughts running through his head, clear as day. Baby. _Babybabybaby._

“We’re having a baby, Killian.”

“We’re having a _baby_.” 

“Yeah.”

The smile that breaks out across his face seconds before he lunges for a kiss is one of pure elation, relief and joy and delight all at once, and it meets her lips in a ferocious kiss, not the gentle press she’d been expecting. Before rational thought can stop her, she’s straddling his thighs, injured hand resting on his shoulder as his hook caresses the length of her spine. Every time she breaks for air, takes a second just to register the response she’s getting, he looks at her with such adoration. Praises on his lips, promise in his eyes.

She hadn’t expected it to go this way but, then again, she hadn’t expected to spend almost an hour in the hospital awaiting a glass extraction after her original plan had gone awry. 

Killian’s tongue in her mouth more than makes up for it.

“Wait,” He pauses, laughing as Emma chases his lips for another kiss. Instead, he offers her his cheek. She pouts, sitting back and wincing at the throb in her hand as she grips his shoulder with her injured one. Gently, he removes it from his shoulder, turning it over to look upon the bandage. The telltale inkblot of red casts a shadow on the dressing, she’d probably tugged it at some point, causing one of Whale’s magic strips to tear. Killian presses a kiss to her palm. “I’ve watched enough of your hospital dramas to understand the reluctance to take your prescription while in such a delicate state but why not indulge in magic?” 

In the past few days, between finding out and confessing, Emma spent a lot of time worrying about the magical side of things. Despite Mary Margaret’s comforting and reassurance that everything would be okay, magic or no magic, the weight of her gift sat like lead in her stomach. If Zelena hadn’t skipped town for the Enchanted Forest with Robin all those months ago, Emma would’ve bombarded her with questions. Her next option, Regina, was either too busy to answer the phone or ignoring her calls, burying herself in work after Henry’s departure. Emma never felt like leaving a message. Pregnancy announcements are probably best not left as a voicemail.

She’d tried the library without much luck, only managing to find a few dog-eared copies of What To Expect When You’re Expecting and one horrifically detailed article on birthing techniques from Agrabah. She didn’t want to let slip to Belle either, not before Killian knew. 

Emma had shouldered the weight of her doubts, abstaining from magic altogether. It’s honestly surprising that Killian hadn’t noticed sooner.

“I know how it sounds but I just— I don’t know how, or even if, it’ll affect the baby.” The admission comes with a wave of guilt, simmering just slightly below the surface. The first time she’d done this, there had been no one to tell, no one to turn to for comfort, nothing but the four walls and cot in her cell. Killian’s hand and hook, caressing her injured palm, pull her back from the edge of that thought. She’s not that girl anymore. She is no longer lost. 

He is her true north.

“No one can blame you for being cautious, love,” He smiles and it makes every part of her ache to kiss him again. She doesn’t, instead, letting her free hand tuck his hair behind his ears. She wonders, with a soft smile, if the way he leans into her touch is intentional or instinctive. “But Henry turned out fine. Better than fine, in fact. Henry’s fantastic. Though your magic was dormant then, it was still there. Just like it’s there now, protecting our little one.” 

“Do you really think so?”

Nothing settles her as much as Killian’s knowing smile does. He nods, certain.

“Aye, love.” 

Any qualms she’d had about this earlier drain out of her in a sigh; each niggle of doubt, tug of anxiety, flash of fear. All gone. Here, with her husband by her side, she is safe. Whatever happens, they’re in this together. Whatever life throws their way; villains, monsters, tragedy, pregnancy— they’ve got this.

She’d promised him forever, after all. 

Between them, her palm glows bright white. 

  


* * *

  


Alice Margaret Jones comes, kicking and screaming—all 7lbs 6oz of her—into their lives and she is magical. Killian cries, of course, and Henry comforts him through it, both of them completely enamoured by the newest addition to their family. She’s pink cheeks and blue eyes and a shock of blonde hair but it’s far too soon to see which parent she’ll favour. Emma doesn’t care, too choked up with the love she holds for the angel latched to her breast. 

She doesn’t have words for this emotion and can’t begin to even comprehend the gravity of it. Alice, for nine whole months, was her companion, her guide, her conscience. Reassuring her with soft kicks, heartbeat thrumming like a butterfly’s, always hiding from the ultrasound wand on their appointments. Now, she belongs to the world. Now, everyone else gets to experience the purest soul Emma has ever known. 

Alice’s tiny hand clutching Killian’s finger in a vice grip is the last thing Emma sees before sleep finally claims her, truly content.

  


* * *

  


There is no scar on the palm of her hand but Killian kept the shard of glass, a reminder wrapped carefully in the velvet box in which he stores all his treasures.


End file.
